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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24731788">Let's Dance</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/pseuds/Torched22'>Torched22</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Not Related, Extremely Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild Blood, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Psychological Torture</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:47:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24731788</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/pseuds/Torched22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They let the beast out of Claremont so that he can attend an opulent party and help the NYPD nab another killer. Malcolm is tasked with keeping him on track. When the killer kidnaps Malcolm as his next victim, the situation goes from playful to deadly serious.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This was a bad idea.”</p><p>“Isn’t it too late to be having this conversation, Gil?”</p><p>The older man sighed, leaning forward to stare at the monitors. His skin felt three sizes too small and there was an itch at the back of his brain that he couldn’t scratch.</p><p>“Trusting Martin Whitly is the kiss of death.”</p><p>“We have eyes everywhere…”</p><p>“What if he kills someone? Or gets someone killed? Worse...what if he gets Malcolm killed?”</p><p>“He won’t,” Dani reassured him. “He values Malcolm more than anything. You know that.”</p><p>Gil grunted, crossing his arms and leaning back in the folding chair set up in the van. “You know what I’d love?” he asked rhetorically. “I’d love for Martin to do something crazy and give me a reason to shoot him.”</p><p>Dani took a deep breath. “I know that you’re mostly kidding when you say that, but...if that ever happened...do you think Malcolm would ever forgive you? Would ever recover?”</p><p>She couldn’t see it but Gil was biting the inside of his lip and his fingers tingled for the opportunity to reach for his weapon.</p><p>Outside of the innocuous van, several houses down the street, sat the large bustling mansion. It was gated, but the iron was opened for the occasion. Armed gatekeepers had checklists in hand, tasers on the opposite hip of their weapons and earpieces.</p><p>Down the lit curved drive sat the sprawling home, it’s windows awash in a golden glow. It thrummed with activity as immaculately dressed men and women arrived and sauntered inside.</p><p>Malcolm couldn’t help but feel like an imposter. Even though he had been brought up with money, it didn’t always feel as though he belonged in that world. Maybe it was because he was broken, he reasoned.</p><p>“Chin up my boy,” Martin turned, standing toe to toe with his son, reaching out to straighten the jet black bow tie. Malcolm gulped, still wildly unused to being in the presence of an unshackled serial killer.</p><p>“You’re too excited to be here,” he said flatly.</p><p>“Well of course I am!” Martin beamed. “This is my first outing in twenty years and to top it off, I get to team up with my boy to catch a killer. It’s like twenty years worth of Christmas’ rolled into one night,” his eyes glittered.</p><p>“You have no idea what it’s like going from this world…” he stepped back, putting his hands into pockets and craning his head to stare at the chandelier, “...going from this opulence, to a tiny room, chained to the wall like a dog. No real human interaction. No human touch. No champagne. No gossip. No excitement. Few challenges. It starves one’s soul.”</p><p>Malcolm huffed incredulously, “that’s funny.”</p><p>“What is?”</p><p>“That you think you have a soul.”</p><p>Martin’s eyes returned to his and darkened a few shades. His voice lowered to match and a challenge shimmered in his perfect, white smile. “Oh, I quite think I have a soul.”</p><p>“Champagne?” a stranger had practically floated up to the pair with a tray. Martin took two and held one out to his boy. </p><p>Malcolm put a hand up. “You know I can’t.”</p><p>“Ah, right, you’re working,” he kept both flutes and brought one to his lips.</p><p>“Keep your voice down,” he whispered.</p><p>“Oh, silly Mal...you need to relax.”</p><p>He took a step forward, far too entrenched in Martin’s sphere of personal space. “How can I relax knowing that I’m in the midst of a killer?”</p><p>Martin finished the first flute and set it down on a passing tray. “You’re not in the midst of a killer. You’re in the midst of two,” he purred.</p><p>A woman in a slinky red dress interrupted their repartee. “Hello gentlemen,” she smiled, her lipstick as ruby as the fabric that clung to her curves. Malcolm’s jaw tightened and there was a tight, nervous energy behind his crystal blue eyes. Martin on the other hand, handled the intrusion with grace.</p><p>“Why, hello,” he held his hand out to introduce himself. “Martin Bright.”</p><p>Malcolm began coughing, turning a lovely shade of tomato red. He had choked on his own spit when those two words - that very much did NOT belong together - floated past Martin’s lips so effortlessly. He hadn’t asked what alias he’d used with the killer. But now he knew.</p><p>“Is your friend there okay?” the woman asked with mirth in her tone.</p><p>“Oh, he’s fine,” Martin put a hand on the juncture of Malcolm’s neck and shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. “He’s just a bit...at a loss...when it comes to the ladies.”</p><p>“Ah,” she nodded. “I thought that he might play for the, um, other team.”</p><p>Rather than receding, Malcolm’s blush intensified exponentially. He shifted in place and ran a nervous hand through his hair. He didn’t have to dignify this stranger with any answers about his sexuality. But Dani and Gil were listening…</p><p>“I - I’m straight,” he said, voice cracking on the ‘straight,’ making it sound like an obvious lie.</p><p>“Oh honey, I’d say bi at least. But it’s none of my business,” she winked at him and he felt a very strong impulse to run away screaming.</p><p>“And speaking of bi,” she eyed Martin with the same shark grin that Martin often used. “I bet you play for both teams.”</p><p>“You’re right on the mark,” he sounded happier than a cat with a canary.</p><p>Malcolm thought he might pass out and he cursed his body for its interest in Martin’s answer.</p><p>“If you two are...together...I’ll let you be,” she offered.</p><p>“We’re not,” Malcolm squeaked.</p><p>In his ear, Gil was making some comment about puking and Dani was choking on laughter.</p><p>And the man in front of Malcolm, The Surgeon, was thrumming with an energy that was only making his dress pants tighter. After finding out two months ago that he and Martin were in fact, not blood, his fragile psyche only fractured further. Whatever sexual feelings he had spent the last decade repressing were worming their way to the surface due to this revelation. He found himself not nearly as repulsed as he ought to be at the idea of he and Martin being here...together.</p><p>The woman’s eyes swept over Malcolm hungrily, then turned back to Martin who only leaned over to whisper into the woman’s ear. She smiled, nodded, winked at Malcom once more, and walked away.</p><p>“W-what did you say to her?”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter,” he smiled and brought the second glass of champagne to his lips. He took a long swig and then stepped closer to Malcolm.</p><p>Martin’s large left hand came up to Malcolm’s right ear, covering the ear piece. Dani and Gil and whoever else was in the van could only hear the classical music muffling. Malcolm tried to move away but his fa...er, Martin’s fingers gripped his ear and the solidity of his body kept him in place. “The way she was looking at you,” Martin whispered. “If I were a free man. I would have killed her for the way she devoured you with her eyes.”</p><p>Malcolm gulped, his nostrils flaring, taking in the rich complexity of Martin’s cologne. It was sweet and spicy and made him want to sway forward. At this point, he was getting so hard that it would be impossible to hide.</p><p>As Martin stepped back, Malcolm took a deep, shaking breath.</p><p>“I - I’m going to go to the bathroom, and when I get back, we need to find this sicko.” To his horror, Martin’s eyes flitted down his body and lingered on his crotch.<br/>“Do you need any help? Finding your way to the bathroom?”</p><p>“N-no. I don’t,” Malcolm brushed past him, heart beating so fast he could hear it in his ears and feel it in his fingertips...among other places. "I think it's a good idea for us to split up and explore."</p><p>"Ah, gatcha," Martin winked. "You go right and I'll go left."</p><p>"Yeah...sure," Malcolm began walking away, urging the buzz in his blood to cease.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On wobbly legs, Malcolm walked away from his father, slipping past beautifully dressed party-goers to head towards a hallway that swept right. To say that the home he was in was luxuriant would be a massive understatement. He passed high end art in guilded golden frames and statues with delicate frozen expressions that peered at him through marble eyes.</p><p>His profile of Nathaniel Kline was spot on - if his house was anything to go by. He enjoyed showing off his wealth, his prestige. He was smart, perhaps even brilliant, but it was his arrogance that was going to be his downfall. He had no faith that the police could catch him and he was very nearly right. If Major Crimes didn't close this - and soon - the FBI would have their asses.</p><p>Malcolm left the chatter of the party behind him as he tried to carefully slip down the hallway. Despite throwing himself into danger on a regular basis, he still felt a fresh wash of panic roll over his skin. His team was close by, but not close enough. He was unarmed, waltzing through the mansion of a serial killer with another serial killer on his arm. The thought had also crossed his mind...what if Martin, rather than play his part and help Malcolm...joined Kline? Or skipped out on him altogether, making a break for freedom?</p><p>No...he couldn't think like that.</p><p>Taking someone else's kill without the thrill of the grab or the originality that came with the (what he saw as elegant) plotting of their demise wouldn't fit Martin's profile. Not to mention, he was not on his own turf. This was Kline's house and though the mogul was narcissistic like Martin, there were enough marked differences between the killers for Malcolm to know they wouldn't get along.</p><p>Martin had even made a point of showing his disgust at certain decisions Kline had made when Malcolm went over the files with him. But what if that was just a show? What if Whitly made a point of mocking Kline's work in order to get him to trust him?</p><p>Malcolm took a deep breath. He was just being paranoid, at least that's what he told himself.</p><p>Martin would never forsake Malcolm’s trust to join a man, who he considered to be, a subpar serial killer. Plus, the incentives they offered Martin for cooperating were too good to pass up. Better food (much better). More rec time. More time with Malcolm. Plus, Bright knew that his father saw this as an opportunity to gain his trust and admiration.</p><p>It was a chance to be let out of his cage and he wouldn’t screw that up. Wouldn’t disappoint his boy. Would he?</p><p>“Can I help you?”</p><p>Malcolm’s heart thudded to a stop, then kickstarted again in his chest as it palpated. He spun around. It was the killer, Nathaniel Kline.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” he grinned stupidly, purposefully adding a bit of a sway to his stance. “I, uhm, was looking for the bathroom.”</p><p>“Were you now?” the murderer was sizing him up with some suspicion.</p><p>“Yep, but I got distracted by all of this beautiful art,” he pointed to the nearest painting, just a touch further down the hall. Is it...is it an El Greco?” he asked with genuine disbelief.</p><p>“Art enthusiast are you? Mr…?”</p><p>“Findlay. Thomas Findlay,” he held out his hand. Kline begrudgingly shook it.</p><p>“And what is it you do Mr. Findlay?”</p><p>“I’m a curator for a gallery in Brooklyn,” he lied with ease, a smile gracing his face. “It’s a great gallery, but I don’t get to see many El Greco’s,” he giggled, as if drunk.</p><p>“Well I’m afraid that the purpose of this party isn’t to admire my private collection.”</p><p>“That’s too bad,” he whined, overdramatically. “Sorry...I’m a little drunk. I don’t mean to be rude.”</p><p>The stolid man in front of him just made a, “hm,” sound in his throat. “I can show you to the restroom if you’d like,” he extended an arm in the opposite direction. It was one of those suggestions that wasn’t really a suggestion.</p><p>“Sure,” he said giddily.</p><p>Kline had a suspicious air and an annoyed scowl, but beyond that, Malcolm knew that this man very likely used his curt answers and intimidating presence to become the successful millionaire that no one suspected of being a monster.</p><p>The parallels to Martin didn’t go unnoticed.</p><p>“So, Findlay,” Kline started. “What do you know of my El Greco over there?”</p><p>“A-are you trying to test my art history chops now?” he raised his voice impossibly high. “I’m drunk. That hardly seems fair,” heat built at his collar as he scrambled to remember the semester of art history he took at Harvard.</p><p>He also took a moment to chastise himself for picking a fake profession that required real knowledge when he could have just said something like…”I’m in communications”...or, “I’m a hedge fund manager.”</p><p>“Well...that one’s "Pietá" right? The big one - with the triangular composition - that one’s in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. But this version, ‘s smaller,” he fake slurred. “Still...must’ve set you back a pretty penny.”</p><p>They had re-entered the space filled with conversing guests and clinking glasses. “Sixty seven million dollars to be exact,” Kline answered as he turned away from Bright, towards a little alcove with a door that must have been the restroom.</p><p>As soon as Kline turned his back to Malcolm, the profiler sucked in a relieved breath.</p><p>What he didn’t notice was one of Kline’s men in the shadows, watching Bright’s face fall in relief.</p><p>Meanwhile, Martin drifted off towards the opposite end of the gargantuan home. He walked with purpose so that no one would stop him. Hell, he even winked at a few partygoers along the way.</p><p>The real question would be...how would he find a stairwell to a basement in this labyrinth of a mansion? Both he and Malcolm had agreed that Kline likely tortured and killed his victims in a space near to the party. He wanted the rush that came with doing something heinous while oblivious socialites danced and flirted and scurried off upstairs to fuck.</p><p>He turned down one hallway, then another. He tried a few door handles. He constantly checked over his shoulder. Martin knew that Kline had security all over the place and it was easy enough to pick out who they were. They didn’t mingle. They didn’t put on the facade of being happy to be there. So he waited until they were dispersed and otherwise preoccupied, and slid away from the party.</p><p>But what if he couldn’t find…</p><p>“Ah…” Martin came to a door at the end of a hallway. It was set apart in a rather suspicious manner and it had key code access to boot.</p><p>How to get in…</p><p>“What’s going on?” his boy’s voice filled his earpiece.</p><p>“I think I found a door that leads to the basement,” he whispered. Then stopped. A sound tickled his ears.</p><p>In the quietness of his bated breaths, Martin suddenly heard approaching footsteps. Someone was climbing the stairs.</p><p>He rushed for a nearby door and was relieved to find it unlocked. He hurried inside, leaving it open just a crack, and watched as a man in a navy blue suit emerged. Luckily, he was walking away quickly. Quick enough that Martin could pop out from his hiding spot and catch the door with a single finger before it snapped shut.<br/>‘Well that was lucky, wasn’t it?’ he mused as he descended the staircase. The temperature dropped considerably as he treaded down each wooden flat and his eyes descended upon an immaculate wine cellar.</p><p>“Where did you find the door?”</p><p>“Left down the main hall, then a right, then another left. Door has a keypad,” he whispered. “But I got in.”</p><p>Martin looked around in confusion, then huffed a laugh.</p><p>‘Of course. What did you expect? Dr. Evil’s lab? A metal table in plain sight with his victim tied upon it? Come on Martin…’ he thought to himself.</p><p>“How did you get in?”</p><p>“Guard coming out. Got lucky.”</p><p>He walked over to the walls lined with bottles, regarding the endless rows of stacked Rieslings and Merlots and Cabernets. This man could easily start his own liquor store. Shoot, he could have a whole chain of stores if he wanted. Zinfandels...bordeauxs...burgundys...whites...even a column for champagne. “Color me impressed,” Martin whispered to himself before turning away.</p><p>Easily, he pictured Kline giving tours of his wine cellar and adjacent man cave as his victims lay hidden away, bound and terrified, just behind this glorious facade.<br/>Martin walked through the man-cave, noting everything that would make the average man horrendously jealous. He was, by no means, “the average man,” but he still felt spikes of green tint his vision. Winding around the pool tables and wet bar, he came to a door.</p><p>“Fuck...I’m going to need you to let me in.”</p><p>It was just a restroom.</p><p>“I can’t go back now,” Martin whispered.</p><p>He tried to hurry along, trying other doors...and in navigating the space... eventually he found a door with another key pad.</p><p>“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he ran a hand through his hair as he stared at the lit numbers. He noticed that five of the ten digits were worn. That meant 30,240 combination possibilities (as long as no numbers repeated).</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Gil’s voice stabbed Martin’s ear and he nearly jumped.</p><p>“I - I’ve come to a keypad. I need to disable it to get inside. I think I found where he keeps his victims.”</p><p>“Well...maybe we can -”</p><p>Martin cut him off. “Oh, fuck this,” he brought a hand up and knocked on the door.</p><p>“What the fuck are you doing?” Gil screamed directly into his eardrum. “You’re going to blow this whole damn thing!”</p><p>Martin grinned, thoroughly enjoying Lieutenant Arroyo’s panic. “I wasn’t aware your voice went that high,” he replied with a shit eating grin that somehow managed to echo in the cadence of his words.</p><p>“Are you fucking insane?” Malcolm echoed. Martin ignored it.</p><p>A bald man with a massive gun opened the door.</p><p>“I think you took a wrong turn bud,” the man moved to close the door but Martin stuck his toe in the juncture.</p><p>“I didn’t,” he smiled. “I’m here for the real fun.”</p><p>The gatekeeper looked at him with hard-edged suspicion. “No you’re not,” he pulled out his cellphone. “Whatever your name is, it’s not on the list. Everyone who’s supposed to be here, is.”</p><p>So Kline WAS selling tickets to his murder show...</p><p>His boy’s shot-in-the-dark theory had been accurate. Pride swelled in his chest and he made sure not to let it show on his face. He could be proud later, for now, he needed to get inside.</p><p>“I don’t do...lists…” he spat the word out as if it were putrid. “I don’t think you understand who I am.”</p><p>“And who are you?”</p><p>“Martin Whitly,” he said with emphasis. “You know...notorious…” he leaned in close to whisper, “...serial killer.”</p><p>The man didn’t move to open the door.</p><p>“Don’t believe me? Google it.”</p><p>The guard raised his phone. “Hey Siri...show me Doctor Whitly, The Surgeon.”</p><p>"Here is what I found for: Dr. Whitly, The Surgeon," the mechanical voice parroted.</p><p>Martin waited; irritation rolling from him in deadly waves.</p><p>“Huh,” the guard looked at his phone, then up at Martin, then back to his phone. “Still... I need the boss’s approval,” he began texting on his phone and Martin rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Oh, for crying out loud,” he said pushing past the ‘guard.’</p><p>“Hey, you can’t just…” the guard followed him into the new hallway and Martin backed him against the wall as the door shut.</p><p>“I can just,” he grinned. “I’m a serial killer. ‘Doesn’t follow rules’ is kind of an inherent trait. I’m sure your boss will be fine with it,” he let go of where he had gripped the guard by his lapel and began sauntering down the hallway with a confidence that said, ‘just try to shoot me in the back - see what happens.’</p><p>“You’re supposed to be in prison,” the guard said from behind his left shoulder, catching up to him.</p><p>“I am. My cell just happens to be unoccupied at the moment.”</p><p>“And how the hell did you manage to swing that?”</p><p>They walked to the very end of the corridor and came upon yet another door. Of course, now that he actually had a rent-a-cop escort the door didn’t have a keypad. The irony. Still...how many damn doors did this house contain?</p><p>“How did I swing it? Well, I’m quite charming. Plus, I have an abundance of money. And surprisingly, I’ve recently made some cop friends.” Hearing Gil choke in his ear only made his grin widen.</p><p>The bald man quirked an eyebrow. His phone dinged and he looked at it.</p><p>“Boss says it’s alright for you to stay. He’s on his way down now.”</p><p>“Lovely,” he beamed, turning towards the door.</p><p>“But...he wants to talk to you first. Before it begins.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Yeah. The door’s locked, he’ll open it for you after your chat,” he nodded. “Nice to meet you Dr...uh...The Surgeon.”</p><p>Martin gave an “uh-huh,” and stood awkwardly at the door. He watched the Mr. Clean-like guard walk down the hallway and heard the clicks of keys, and then a buzzer. He sighed, not able to help the irritation at being left waiting as if he were no one in particular.</p><p>Mr. Kline emerged from the same door that Martin had just a handful of minutes before.</p><p>Martin wondered briefly what was about to happen. Would Kline question him as to how he even knew about this operation? Would he kill him on the spot? Or add him to whichever victims he had inside? Would he let him in on the kill itself? Would he gloat and use Martin as an opportunity to show off to a kindred spirit, or would he feel threatened?</p><p>Martin was about to find out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nathaniel Kline was a well dressed man who was around the same age as Martin. As Whitly watched their suspect approach, he couldn't help the jealous rage that bubbled beneath the surface. If only he could have made it to such a ripe age before being caught. So much of his life was wasted, whole decades dwindled down the drain, all because of an impulse grab of a beautiful young woman and his failure to snuff out his nosy little boy. </p><p>"You're The Surgeon." </p><p>It wasn't a question. Just a fact thrown out between the two men once Kline's fancy shoes came to a clacking halt in front of Martin. "I thought you were Martin Bright?" </p><p>Now for the fun. </p><p>Martin thrived thinking on his feet, teetering on the edge between fooling the unsuspecting and getting caught. The stakes were even higher because he was dealing with a killer like himself. </p><p>"Well what did you expect I'd do? Waltz into your little party and tell the others that Martin Whitly had arrived?" he smiled jovially, fully aware that his round tummy and wild curls made him look...soft...the opposite of predatory. </p><p>"How are you not in prison right now?" </p><p>"I could ask you the same thing!" he shot back. </p><p>Kline's stoic face reflected that he was in no way amused. "There's no way they would let a monster like you out of jail," Kline began to move, to brush past Martin, but Whitly quickly sidestepped and blocked him. The light demeanor that had radiated from him just moments ago had vanished. His face grew serious, but he kept tight control of his tone and body language. </p><p>"Oh Mr. Kline, I wasn't in prison. I was in a psychiatric facility," he started, not even sure where he was going to go with this. "The security is far more lax than a federal prison. Plus, it turns out that our lovely director can be bought,” he beamed. “The only snag I had in securing my little vacation was the head of security…” he feigned a troubled look but quickly scrubbed it away. “Thankfully, Adrian likes the idea of having his cock sucked by a serial killer,” he grinned widely. </p><p>In his ear he heard Detective Arroyo fake gagging.</p><p>Or maybe it wasn’t fake. Whatever the case, Martin had to shove away the urge to burst out laughing. </p><p>Kline gave him a scrutinous once-over as he digested the fanciful tale of bribery and fellatio.   </p><p>“So you got out. How the hell did you catch wind of my party?”<br/>
“Oh come on Kline,” Martin edged forward with a knowing glimmer in his eye. “We’re the same,” he forced the words out even though they weren’t true. “Killers, poised like spiders on a vast web. I’ve heard very little about you, which speaks to your skill and discretion...but what I have heard has been all positive. The web vibrated and I came.” He felt absolutely green in lying, his stomach souring as he willed the compliment out of his lips.</p><p>Martin waited and watched the praise fall over Kline. To the untrained eye, one might say that he didn’t react, but Martin caught the slight curl at his lip as he lapped up the positive feedback.  </p><p>“You can’t just crash an event like this. There are ground rules. Contracts.”</p><p>“Oh come on,” Martin shifted his weight. “I’m a prisoner, remember? You can have me locked up yourself. Call the cops in an instant. Not to mention, my words hold very little weight out there in the real world. I’m afraid my credibility has been...bled dry,” he grinned. </p><p>Kline considered turning the doctor away, but at what cost? What if his words did hold some credibility and by letting him go, he might jeopardize his own operations? He swallowed thickly, hating the position he had been put in. </p><p>Truth be told though, he had spent some time following Martin Whitly's case. He was the reason that Kline spent so much time perfecting his knife work. In a roundabout way, The Surgeon was like a colleague. But he owed him nothing. There is no honor among thieves...or murderers. Finally, he made up his mind and parted his thin lips to speak.</p><p>“You can’t ask the members their names and you can’t hurt them or me.”</p><p>“Done, done and done,” Martin assured.</p><p>“And none of these proceedings are to be discussed. Ever. Not in any capacity.” </p><p>“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Martin used his finger to gesture at his chest.</p><p>Kline just stood for a moment, continuing to consider this bizarre turn of events. </p><p>“So am I the victim?” Martin jested, “because the suspense is killing me.” </p><p>Kline rolled his eyes, and this time, successfully moved past Martin. </p><p>The Surgeon took this opportunity, free of the heavy gaze of his counterpart to remove the earpiece that had been snugly lodged in his ear canal. He couldn’t risk Kline finding it or it would be game over. He entered the room that Kline led him into and when he turned to close the door behind them, he chucked the earpiece down the empty hallway.</p><p>It’s a good thing he did, because as soon as the metal clicked and he turned around, one of Kline’s men was right there to search him. </p><p>Martin huffed a laugh as the large tan hands roved over his body. “My, my, your boy here is quite handsy. They don’t even pat me down this well in Claremont,” he smiled. His comments were ignored by their host who had walked to the center of the clean room. </p><p>Whitly took a moment to drink in the room. It was a square space with only one entrance/exit. There were three people in the space besides him and the host. Two men and one woman. They were immaculately dressed and had rather nondescript features. Martin was surprised that they weren’t wearing masks or otherwise trying to conceal their identities. </p><p>Leave it to murderers to be cocky and defiant in the face of possible discovery. </p><p>“What the hell is this?” one of the spectators stood. She was a middle aged woman in a dark green dress. </p><p>“This is our special guest,” Kline gestured towards him. “Dr. Martin Whitly,” he smiled. “Better known as, “The Surgeon.” </p><p>She looked him up and down incredulously. Her cold glare was a bit of a blow to the ego. Martin knew that he’d grown a touch round during his time in lock up, but he was still formidable - or so he thought. </p><p>He let her look and slipped on his own mask of unaffected nonchalance. As she and the others drank him in, he considered what it would be like to kill them all. It was just a passing thought, a  fleeting daydream. None of this was set up how he would prefer. The catch was stale, the tools were unavailable, the setting was absurd. The entire affair stank of haughty elitism. It was hardly Martin's style, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. </p><p>He also wasn’t particularly fond of Kline’s decor. Who the hell put a tiger skin rug in a murder room? Who even had a murder room? Well...to be fair...Martin technically had a murder room in his murder basement. Dammit, they were in Kline’s basement, weren't they? Agch. He hated having anything in common with this boorish plebeian.</p><p>“These proceedings are supposed to be closed,” one of the seated men spoke up as well. </p><p>Martin threw him an icy glare but the man didn’t bother to meet Martin’s gaze.</p><p>“If you don't like it, you can leave,” Kline fixed his cufflinks and moved towards a pillar in the middle of the room. </p><p>The man who had raised a half objection did nothing more but readjust himself in his seat, leaning back and accepting the turn of events. </p><p>“How do we know we can trust him?” the woman queried further. </p><p>“Oh,” Martin huffed, “of course you can’t trust me dear,” he chuckled menacingly. “I’m a serial killer!”</p><p>“You know what I mean,” she said with a string of annoyance threaded through her tone. </p><p>A snarl started beneath his facade and pulled his lip up just a hair. He waltzed over to the obnoxious woman and stood toe to toe with her. He could sense her aberration, recognize the nature that squirmed beneath her porcelain mask. She was a killer too. But no match for him. </p><p>“You buy the tickets to the horror show…” he tilted his head, “that doesn't’ mean that you run it.”</p><p>“And you do?” </p><p>Rage roared in the doctor’s chest and he imagined his broad hand wrapped around her frail neck. </p><p>“Actually...I was thinking that tonight, he might.” </p><p>“What?” she looked past Martin and towards Kline.</p><p>“Well, he’s a distinguished killer. A surgeon. A master of manipulation and the human body,” Kline continued, much to Martins’ surprise. </p><p>Apparently his reputation preceded him. </p><p>“We have a beautiful specimen,” he informed them. “Initially, a female in her mid-twenties was on the menu. But tonight is an evening of surprises. As killers, we roll with the punches. We take advantage of opportunities that present themselves.”</p><p>Oh good lord, was Kline really waxing poetic to him? He was...is...The. Fucking. Surgeon. He didn’t come here for a TED Talk. With a huff, he composed his features so as not to show his annoyance at being talked down to. </p><p>“If our specimen isn’t a female in her mid-twenties...then who is it?” another man asked. </p><p>The door creaked open behind Martin and he stepped aside. It was the same Mr. Clean-looking guard who he had run into earlier, only now he had his arms full with a very squirmy young man. </p><p>Shock rolled through Martin as he watched the guard pull a gagged and bound Malcolm towards the post in the middle of the room and begin chaining him up. There was no room to react, no chance for forgiveness if he let his true emotions slip through in front of four murderers. </p><p>He could hear Malcolm’s muffled breaths as they dragged through the fabric of the cloth. He watched him try to put up a fight, but his movements were sloppy and uncoordinated. </p><p>They had drugged him. </p><p>Malcolm’s pupils were huge and his eyes were wildly flying over the space and its occupants. He tried to wrestle himself away, but he was no match for the Lex Luthor-like guard who easily strapped him to the pillar. His arms were dragged above his head, wrists handcuffed together. </p><p>Martin only watched in thinly veiled fascination as his son was hung up like meat on a hook. </p><p>Once the hands were secured, Mr. Lex Luthor shackled his feet at the base of the pillar. Then he took to removing Malcolm’s shoes and socks, until his bare feet were slipping and sliding against the plastic sheet laid out on the floor.</p><p>Malcolm’s body was pulled taut as a bow, curved at the spine in a weak attempt to pull away, but he wasn't going anywhere and some dark satisfaction rumbled through Martin with the force of a freight train. </p><p>Oh how glad he was in that moment that he hadn't killed his boy as a child. He made far too beautiful of an adult…</p><p>He couldn’t help but let his mind wander to his long and complicated history with his boy. Back to that moment when he held Malcolm in his arms after he was born and Malcolm had opened his eyes. He had stared up at Martin with those giant, topaz blue irises, making Martin the very first sight he had ever taken in. He had been completely helpless then and he was completely helpless now, only for an entirely different reason.</p><p>Martin’s gears were turning at full speed now as he calculated the various ways in which the night might unfold. The things he could say to his boy… the things he could do to him…</p><p>He could kill Kline and the guests and make Malcolm watch. He could kill everyone but Kline and force his boy to do the deed at long last. He could kill them all and then have some alone time with Malcolm… </p><p>He could kill Malcolm. </p><p>He could escape.</p><p>Appetite whetted with the variety of possibilities, Whitly started by walking towards his boy, coming to a stop about half a foot from his heaving chest. “Well, what do we have here?” he grinned, reaching up to drag off the gag. Oh how fun it was to pretend that he didn’t know the soon-to-be-victim. And even better, he knew that Malcolm wouldn’t break character. </p><p>He had no idea how they had gotten Malcolm, but he didn’t particularly care. He knew nothing of how his feed had been cutting in and out. How Malcolm heard Martin say “cock,” and then picked up Arroyo’s gagging sounds. It made Malcolm double his efforts. He had come to the same door Martin had passed through earlier, but he remained stumped by the keypad. Martin had no idea of the way the accosting guard had snuck up behind Malcolm and wrapped a strong arm around his torso as he shoved a needle into his neck. </p><p>Malcolm had made it too easy. </p><p>He never should have put himself in a position to run into Kline alone. That first chance encounter by the artwork had sealed his fate. There was no going back. There was no wiggling away from the bite of the needle at his neck. He could practically feel when the syringe had been plunged and the contents emptied into him. They washed through him with a cold surge, accompanied by adrenaline and dread. </p><p>The man, whose face he hadn’t even seen yet, used his towering stature and massive wall of muscles to press Malcolm’s front flush against the door. He waited a minute for the drugs to take effect before gagging the mumbling Malcolm and securing his wrists. The world rolled around Bright and time slowed to a crawl, leaving him to languish in his panic. Before his body was even dragged through the door and down the stairs, he knew...he just knew that he was headed for The Surgeon.</p><p>Now, in the basement, roped up in front of his father, Malcolm sucked in a lungful of air once the gag was gone, and he blinked several times. It was clear that whatever drug they had given him was still rolling through him. </p><p>“I stumbled upon this drunkard upstairs,” Kline remained standing, his arms folded over his chest and a look of glimmering satisfaction playing over his eyes. “I knew from the moment I saw him that I wanted him…” </p><p>A deadly tide of jealousy and rage rolled through Martin’s chest, but he held it at bay as best he could, letting it manifest only as a slight frown. </p><p>“If you want him so much, why let me have him?” Martin cocked his head and asked the dangerous question that could result in him losing his chance. </p><p>“I’ve studied you,” Kline answered matter-of-factly. “A chance to see you at work eclipses whatever desires I might have. Plus, I have plenty of guests, I can always pluck another.” </p><p>Martin set his jaw and ignored his brain that screamed how special his boy was - how no other could match him in beauty or brains. “Plucking another,” as Kline had so crudely put it, was an absurd thought and it only made Kline fall further in Martin’s eyes. He hated the man with an acidic vitriol that could have eaten through the concrete floor. He wanted to nic his arteries until he had enough of his blood to bathe in. </p><p>“Don't do this,” his boy finally spoke in a shaking voice. Martin's attention snapped back to the beautiful man before him. </p><p>“I can see why you picked him,” he continued the charade. “He’s beautiful.” </p><p>Malcolm swallowed hard and tried not to react to Martin’s words, but failed. A shudder vibrated down his spine and he felt his cock begin to fill at the praise. He blinked furiously and tried to gather the three shattered versions of Martin he saw into one.  </p><p>“Such a shame to kill a creature with eyes like these,” Martin smiled and took another step forward. “I can’t wait to make you cry,” he purred. As if on command, liquid gathered at Malcolm’s eyes, but had yet to fall. Martin was fully in his space now, his fine suit brushing against Malcolm’s, his cologne filling his nose, his curls tickling the side of his face as he leaned in to whisper in his ear. </p><p>“You belong here,” he whispered, “tied up for my pleasure. For my use,” he pulled back. The words had hit their mark and the tears were slipping over the lip of Malcolm’s lids and dashing down his cheeks. </p><p>He brought a hand up and brushed Malcolm’s hair back into place. Even with gel in it, it was feather soft to the touch and obeyed Martin’s movements. Then he brought a thumb to Malcolm's cheeks and slid the tears away. As he moved his hand to the side of Malcolm’s head that was out of view from the audience, he removed Malcolm’s earpiece and crushed it between his fingers before dropping it into his pocket. </p><p>If Kline or the others saw it, they might begin to suspect Martin's timely arrival in all of this. He kept his hands in his pockets and very nearly swayed forward to kiss away the next tears that fell.</p><p>“Would you look at that,” Kline’s voice broke into the moment and splashed over Martin like a bucket of cold water. Irritation itched in his ribs at the fact that he wasn’t’ alone with his boy and he quickly considered killing the killers so that he would be. </p><p>“Look at what?” he let the annoyance bleed into his voice. </p><p>“He’s hard.” </p><p>No. Nonononono. Malcolm was panicking. He drew in erratic breaths and his squirming began anew. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a nightmare. He needed to wake soon, straining against the shackles of his bed and grateful for the morning light. But that moment never came.</p><p>“Well this is a surprising development,” Martin tilted his head down and stared at the tented crotch of malcolm’s dress pants. He lifted his head and let his gaze fall heavy on Malcolm’s blue eyes which were beginning to clear. “Does it turn you on to be in mortal danger?” he asked, boldly bringing a hand to cup Malcolm’s arousal through the fabric. “Or do I turn you on?” </p><p>Malcolm could sense Martin’s narcissism swelling. He knew that the killer viewed him as an extension of himself, and realizing that Malcolm was attracted to him only stoked the flames of his conceit.</p><p>Malcolm dragged in a deep breath and let it out in a shuddered sigh. The hand at his crotch was warm and firm and he wanted to press into it. </p><p>His stomach turned and his dinner threatened to rise in his throat. “No...no I don’t want this,” he croaked.</p><p>“Is that the truth or a lie that you wish were the truth.” </p><p>“It...it’s the drugs…” Malcolm lied.</p><p>“What did you give him?” </p><p>“Just a mild sedative. If anything, it would have the opposite effect…” Kline spoke as if Malcolm were a specimen that existed only for his observation. </p><p>“Are you going to kill me?” Malcolm asked, a rocking tremor ricocheting around beneath his flesh. </p><p>The light in Martins’ eyes shifted, his visage changed. It was so subtle that someone who didn’t know him intimately wouldn’t have caught it. But Malcolm did. It was the same look his father had when he had visited during his time at Harvard...when he asked how Martin would kill him. </p><p>Excitement. Arousal. Bloodlust. He could practically see the gears turning behind Martin’s muddled grass and sky eyes. He had gone back to Boston vibrating after that visit, swallowed by a haze of arousal so strong that he thought he might suffocate on it. </p><p>“Tools?” Martin asked the host. </p><p>As Martin walked over to get a tray of instruments, Malcolm seriously wondered if this was the room he was going to die in...humiliated...aroused...snuffed out by his own father.</p><p>Martin rolled the tray of metal objects back over to where Malcolm was hung up. The metal wheels squeaked along the floor and nearly got bunched up in the plastic tarp, but didn’t. The look on Martin’s face was serious and considering. His large hand reached for a knife. </p><p>“You know, I almost killed my wife once,” he held the point of the 8” knife against his opposite index finger. “She cheated on me,” he said to no one in particular.</p><p>The words rushed through Malcolm’s ears like river rapids and soaked him from the inside out. His blood felt like a thick sludge. He wished that the drugs they had given him were stronger. He didn’t want to be awake for this. At least if he were passed out, it would take the satisfaction out of the proceedings for Martin and the others. </p><p>“With a nobody no less. Just some nameless face at a party. She was bored. She was lonely. I hadn’t yet learned how to balance work and my murderous hobbies...blah blah blah,” he brought the knife to Malcolm and the young man flinched. </p><p>Only...Martin was using it to remove his clothing. Not to cut him. Not yet. </p><p>“I had set out to kill her. Made up my mind,” he put the flat of the knife along Malcolm’s belly, then turned the blade so that it could tear through the fabric of his button down. The sound of the cloth threading apart made goosebumps rise along Malcolm’s flesh. </p><p>“But then she informed me that she was pregnant.” </p><p>Malcolm swallowed, but he had no spit. His throat felt tight and the room even tighter. He was finally divested of his shirt, and then his tie, and when his torso was naked, his tears fell upon his heated flesh. </p><p>“So I didn't kill her. I thought...maybe I’ll wait until after the baby comes. What if it’s mine?”</p><p>“Why are you telling us this?” the same woman from before interjected. </p><p>Martin threw her a deadly glare and she shriveled. </p><p>“What can I say? I enjoy a good story and I don’t have the opportunity to talk much in the psych ward,” he ground out. Cracking his neck, he returned his eyes to what his hands were doing. After a moment, he began speaking once more. </p><p>“The child came. A boy,” he carried on, his hands undoing Malcolm’s belt buckle. Bright shook and hiccuped a sob. </p><p>“Didn’t your son get you caught?” Kline inquired. </p><p>“He did.” </p><p>“Why didn’t  you just kill him. Was he actually your son?” </p><p>Martin slid the belt from it’s loops then stared straight at Malcolm. “He is my son.”</p><p>Malcolm felt his hands tingle with hyperventilation. The flesh on the bottom of his feet was sweaty and sticking to the tarp that would surely soon shield the floor from his splatter of blood. It felt as though he had already been wounded. </p><p>“He is my son, maybe not by blood, but by sickness,” Martin undid the button and zipper on Malcolm’s slacks and dragged both his pants and underwear down his hips, down his legs. “His neurosis is different from mine. Not about murder, but about sex.” </p><p>“Is he a rapist?” </p><p>“No,” Martin shot angrily at the man who had asked the question. </p><p>The air grew thick with tension and it took several minutes for him to re-compose himself. He gripped the knife so hard that his knuckles turned white. He took several steadying breaths and knelt on the floor to begin cutting Malcolm’s pants and underwear off. He couldn't just drag them off due to the shackles. </p><p>“The irony is…” he continued. “That he’s a profiler, my son is. He identifies the sickness in others but can’t face his own.” Martin sawed at the fabric and paused to look up at his captive audience. “He learned that we’re not blood. A fact that his mother thought would help him if he learned. Only it didn’t help. It made things worse because his excuse for being a monster was gone.” </p><p>Malcolm’s chest was flush with a brilliant pink and tears rolled down his body. His cock was long and hard and pointed at Martin kneeling on the floor. He looked so beautifully torn, hung there like a work of art. His bright blue eyes even brighter against the red irritation caused by his tears.</p><p>Bright wanted to open his mouth, to protest, to beg, to have a conversation with Martin about the secrets he was spilling, but he was helpless to do any of those things. He would blow Martin's cover and his own - he would get them both killed. </p><p>Right? </p><p>But wouldn't’ he die regardless? </p><p>Part of him had always known and accepted that Martin would be the last sight he saw alive. The glitter in Martins’ eye was apparent, Malcolm could taste the yearning for blood that rolled off Martin’s skin.</p><p>The Surgeon wanted to kill him. And now that he knew they weren’t blood...how much easier would that be?</p><p>And yet, even thinking that his demise was nigh, he remained hard, his pulse beating thickly in his cock and Martin on his knees didn’t help matters.</p><p>“I almost killed my son,” Martin returned the long knife to the tray but remained at ground level. “But I just...couldn’t...do...it,” he grit through barred teeth, anger roaring beneath the surface like a flash fire. He leaned forward then and quickly sucked Malcolm’s cock into his mouth. </p><p>His fear and arousal were more potent here, so Martin lingered with his nose against the curls of Malcolm’s pubic bone. The cock slipped past his uvula and he used his willpower to suppress his gag reflex. He swallowed once around the length, then slowly drew off, lips tight - cheeks hollowed.</p><p>Malcolm let out a strangled sound that was torn between a groan and a shout of surprise. It was just once. One skilled suck down to the base and then Martin slid back and let go of the cock with a ‘pop.’ Malcolm’s chest heaved and his vision tilted. What had just transpired lasted maybe fifteen seconds, but it threatened to crumble the entire foundation on which his sanity was built. </p><p>Slowly, Martin stood, running his hands along Malcolm’s body as he did so. Once he was prostrate, he moved forward and captured Malcolm’s lips in a blazing kiss. His beard scratched against Malcolm’s stubble and the breath from his nose came in hot bursts against Malcolm’s upper lip. Martin slid his tongue inside and Malcolm belatedly realized that he had let him. </p><p>Malcolm’s mind crackled and sizzled and he wished that he could disassociate, but that wasn’t possible. Instead, he felt the jagged edges of his psyche being torn asunder as Martin pried open his darkest parts and forced the bright truth inside. </p><p>Once the kiss was broken, Martin was nuzzling into his neck and whispering in his ear once more. </p><p>“Even before you knew we weren’t blood, you wanted me. Wanted me to fuck you. Claim you. Rearrange you from the inside out. Not being blood changes nothing. I’m still your father. You still want me to fuck you,” he nipped at his ear with his teeth and Malcolm whimpered against him. “But what is it that makes you a monster Malcolm? Is it wanting me to fuck you? Or is it that you love me, despite knowing what I am?” </p><p>“What are you saying to him?” the woman leaned forward in her chair, her curiosity piqued. </p><p>Martin pulled away and grabbed a smaller knife. He brought the flat of the blade to Malcolm’s mouth. He pressed it against the plush quivering lips and leaned in to kiss the opposing flat side. The knife tasted of metal and promise and it made Martin harder than he already was. </p><p>Then he used the sharp edge to quickly swipe at the peak of Malcolm’s cheek. Bright flinched back but it was too late, blood sprang to the surface and dripped down his face, mingling with the tears; the salt of his crying getting into the new wound and stinging. </p><p>“I said to him all the things he didn’t want to hear,” Martin held the side edge of the blade over Malcolm’s heart and felt it reverberate with each thud. His left hand was wandering over Malcolm’s chest, thumb stopping to toy with the hardened pink nipple at his disposal. </p><p>Martin was both biding his time and enjoying what was taking place. He had already fallen from grace, what was another small tumble into a morally gray area such as this?</p><p>His boy on the other hand...this would surely wreck his boy. </p><p>He let his hand trail lower. </p><p>“Are you waiting for someone to come to your rescue?” Martin asked mockingly, hitting too close to home. Malcolm’s head rose to attention. </p><p>The sedative was doing little to numb Malcolm’s body or mind. Part of him was wishing that Gil and the team would come bursting through the door. But…</p><p>“Or are you hoping that I’ll spin you around and fuck you right here? In front of an audience? Come pulsing out of you as I let your lifeblood pool on the floor?” </p><p>Malcolm couldn’t suppress the moan that was dragged from his mouth, or the way that his cock twitched and leaked. </p><p>He had endured so much. So much. And for what? His entire life had been ruined by this man. All of the pain and suffering and torment could have been avoided. He didn’t’ have to be a monster - but he was. </p><p>Martin’s words rang so true that they further fractured his sanity.</p><p>How many times had Malcolm fantasized about this? About fucking Martin? Even when he thought they were blood? Martin was right, nothing changed, nothing was different. He was still sick down to the bone, rotten in his core like Martin, just in a different way. </p><p>Malcolm had only found out the truth a few months ago, but how long had Martin known? Had he always known? And how long had he known about Malcolm’s dark, dirty little secret? </p><p>Did he know how many times Malcolm had sat in his room, stroking his cock and imagining what that beard would feel like against his inner thighs? Did he know about the nights when Malcolm would wake up hard and sweating, slick with his own come, with Martin’s name on his poisoned lips? Did he know about Malcolm’s obsession with being a submissive? Asking strangers with Martin’s same build to hold him down and call him, ‘my boy’ as they railed him?</p><p>“Please,” he let the word slip out and it seemed to wrap around them both. He couldn't’ stop the flood of tears or the way the chains shook as his body trembled. To the onlookers it probably sounded like a plea for his life, but Martin heard it for the plea that it really was. </p><p>Martin came towards him and slid the knife lightly down his chest, a straight line down the middle. Enough to hurt and bleed but not enough to do real damage. The only sound it elicited from Malcolm was one of relief. </p><p>He wanted to hurt. He wanted to bleed. He deserved it.</p><p>Martin’s hands then went to his hips and turned him to face the beam. </p><p>Malcolm wondered if the surgeon’s large hands were about to spread him apart. He wondered if he was about to be fucked right here, cheek pressed against the unforgiving wood of the pillar, feet skidding against the plastic tarp, five pairs of eyes trained on his pale and quivering body  as his cock leaks onto the floor. </p><p>Would Martin plunge the knife into him as he did it? Maybe slip the blade somewhere between his cage of ribs? </p><p>But no...he wouldn’t stab him once and have it over with. He wouldn't make things quick. Nor would he deliver the deadly blow with Malcolm facing away. It wasn’t intimate enough. </p><p>He could so easily imagine facing Martin and his father lifting his full weight. Fucking into him. The pillar rubbing splinters into Malcolm’s back. If he was facing Martin and The Surgeon was fucking him...he would expect the blow - wait for it. So why wasn’t he facing Martin? Was seeing his face too much? Was he going to paint his back in blood before turning him to finish (in every sense of the word)? </p><p>Malcolm’s mind went wild with possibilities that only quieted when Martin nestled his head of unruly curls against Malcolm’s hidden ear once more. </p><p>“Do you want my cock Malcolm? Or do you want my love?” he molded his body, still clad in the expensive suit, against Bright’s spine. </p><p>“Both,” he answered brokenly, feeling sick down to his soul but burning alive with want.</p>
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